


Les Amis at Christmastime

by meggieglad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Actor Grantaire, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Eloise at Christmastime, Exes, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M, The Plaza Hotel, Waiter Grantaire, lawyer Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggieglad/pseuds/meggieglad
Summary: When Enjolras returns to the Plaza Hotel after four years abroad for law school with some shocking news, Grantaire feels like he has seen a ghost of Christmas past. In the meantime, Enjolras just wants the next month of his life to be over and done with, Courfeyrac wants Combeferre to stop dragging his feet already, and Gavroche just wants someone to tell him what is going on.With a wedding to plan, a New York City Christmas in full swing, and a meddling eight-year-old running around the hotel, the people of the Plaza are in for a month they'll never forget.The Enjoltaire "Eloise at Christmastime" AU that I have been wanting to write for like 4 years.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Montparnasse (Les Misérables), Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	1. Grantaire's Ghost of Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm finally posting this! I started it years ago, found it during lockdown, and finally decided to finish it! 
> 
> The plan is to post one chapter a week leading up to Christmas.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

❅✧❅✧❆

“Jean-Jean!” Gavroche roars, kicking off his shoes in the hallway. The door slams behind him, and Jean Valjean, his unofficial grandfather and foremost confidant, sits straight up in his bed. 

“Gavroche, it's not 6AM yet,” Valjean whines, rubbing callused hands over his face. 

“That doesn't matter this week, of course!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Valjean agrees, somewhat nonsensically. He sometimes has to pretend he is on the same page as Gavroche, for fear of being seen as a complete dolt by the child. 

“Do you know _why_ , Jean-Jean?” Gavroche asked. Caught. Valjean just sighs. 

“No but I have the feeling you're going to tell me.” 

“It's Christmas first, of course!” Gavroche shrieks. He flops down on his caretaker’s bed. “Sometimes I’m afraid you're _absolutely_ hopeless.”

“Just my morning fog, I'm sure. Call down for coffee, will you?”

❅✧❅✧❆

The kitchen is bustling with festive activity. December first marks the start of the Plaza’s busiest season, and boy is it beginning with a bang. 

“Gav just called down,” Chetta says, to the kitchen at large. Only Bossuet and Joly really hear her, the rest of the crew too far away and too frantic to notice anything outside of their work. “He and Valjean request the regular.” 

“Short stack of pancakes, omelette and toast, hot chocolate with whip, and a large black coffee,” Joly rattles off, expertly icing pastries with perfect dollops of cream. It is routine. “Does it seem like he knows?” He adds. 

“Who?” Musichetta asks, nonchalant and shrugging, like she doesn’t already know. 

“Gav!” Bossuet supplies. He’s rolling out dough on the counter, about to get to work on some of his infamous Christmas pies. 

“Knows what?” Musichetta asks, and Joly and Bossuet share an exasperated glance. 

“Ugh! Don't you keep up on the Plaza _Goss_ at all?!” Joly asks.

“I have more important things to worry about,” Musichetta says, “Like, I don’t know, running my kitchen!” She snaps, flicking the oven closed to drive the point home. When the boys only level her with unamused looks she sighs, then gives in. “No, he didn't mention anything about it.”

“That means R doesn't know.” Bossuet says. 

“Someones gotta tell him,” Joly hoists himself onto the counter and leans his cane up against the side. When no one volunteers, Joly huffs. The kitchen stays uncharacteristically focused and quiet. “ _Guys_ , we have to tell him.”

“Tell who what?” Grantaire sweeps into the kitchen, tie undone, energy buzzing out of him in bolts. He hops up onto the counter and slides himself across until he bumps hips with Joly. 

“You,” Musichetta says, without skipping a beat. “That your hair is getting too long and soon you're going to start tripping over your delivery cart because you can't see.”

“ _That's_ what you were talking about?” Grantaire asks, patting down his hair a bit self-consciously. 

“No.” Boss says, raising his eyebrows meaningfully at Chetta. 

“Then what?”

“I just told you.” Musichetta doubles down. 

Grantaire blinks over at Musichetta, raising his eyebrows in confusion, but just shrugs when she offers no more information. “You guys are being weird,” He says, “Anyways, has Gav called yet? He told me yesterday I need to bring a weapon, so I need to borrow a loaf of bread.”

“Secret Agents?”

“Probably Pirates. Secret Agents is so two months ago.” 

“You are so cute with him,” Joly coos. “So much for your image.”

“What image?”

“Your 'I'm Grantaire and I don't care about anything’ image."

“I'm Grantaire and I care about one thing.” Grantaire concedes. 

Bossuet scoffs. “Color us offended!”

“Can I have that bread or not?” Grantaire asks. Joly shrugs which Grantaire decides is as good as a yes. He ducks into the dry storage and picks out the perfect one. When he emerges, Bossuet is loading up Gav's breakfast. He get to work filling the mugs and setting them on the cart. Then, with a quick swoop to steal a cookie off the tray Musichetta is pulling from the oven, he covers the dishes, checks his hair in the reflection of the lids, and calls the cart ready to go. 

“You seem cheerful today,” Bossuet says suspiciously. 

“Just a good day is all.” Grantaire chirps, placing a loud kiss on his cheek. Joly watches on fondly. Then, Grantaire gathers his things and whisks the cart out of the kitchen. 

A few seconds pass, and then: 

“Guys, we _have_ to tell him.”

❅✧❅✧❆

Sixteen floors up, Grantaire pushes his room service cart out of the elevator and down the hall, collecting some stray dishes as he goes. He hums softly to himself, content in the fact that it is almost Christmastime and he actually has the means to buy all of his friends presents for once. Sure, his friends always said they enjoyed their sketches, or paintings, or songs, but he has the money now, and they deserve it. He's been getting loads of shifts at the hotel this year, especially within the past few months. The only one he has left to buy for is Gavroche, and that is only because Grantaire can't decide what he will like best.

He is still thinking on it when he reaches their door. With no time for a decision now, he quickly fashions a tablecloth into a hooded cape and double-checks to make sure his bread-sword is in place. Then, he knocks twice on the door.

"Enter," Grantaire hears Gav say, although it's muffled by the door. Grantaire pushes inside and scans the room to find Gavroche stood proudly on the arm of the couch, and Valjean, his nanny (or manny? Grantaire is not sure which he prefers) tied to a chair with a string of Christmas lights. He is playing along brilliantly. He is always such a good sport about these things. 

"Who goes there?” Gavroche asks from his perch. 

“Release the hostage at once!” Grantaire proclaims, sweeping his cape around for dramatic effect. Sometimes he's sure that the “real acting” he's studying will never be as fun and rewarding as messing about with Gavroche is.

“Who's going to make me?” The boy asks, jumping down from the couch. 

“Just call me R.”

The swordfight is one of their better ones. Grantaire is just happy his stage combat classes are coming in handy _somewhere,_ even if it's just to teach a little kid how to feign and stab. The battle ends with the hostage being freed (of course) and Gavroche pantomiming a fairly impressive and heart wrenching death. 

“Jean-Jean,” Gavroche says, when all is said and done and the man has been released from his binds. “Can I help R set up the Ballroom today? Please! We really make a great team, don't we R?”

“Don't you mean the best?”

“Yes, the _best_ team!”

Gavroche is truly a great help; Grantaire gets done twice as fast and the kid never even comments when Grantaire sneaks drinks from behind the bar. Not that he's been doing that anymore. Grantaire has been a good boy this year, thank you very much. If he still believed in Santa, he'd be expecting mountains of presents. 

“I don't see why not.” Valjean says, and Gavroche cheers, and is already halfway out the door when Valjean adds, “But be home for dinner!”

“Aye aye!” Gavroche shouts, saluting Valjean. 

“I’ll make sure of it, sir.” Grantaire says, and Valjean just crinkles his eyes up in a smile. 

❅✧❅✧❆

“He just seems so cheerful these days,” Joly says. They're all working together stacking dessert trays for an event. "I've never seen him in this good of a mood before!"

"He's been doing really well lately. Just in general." Bossuet puts in, “I'd hate for this to ruin it. And it has the potential to ruin it, that's for sure.”

"Just more of a reason to tell him. He needs fair warning." Musichetta reasons, and the others nod in agreement. 

Joly sighs, then sits up straight, as though he's gotten a brilliant idea. “So, who votes we get Jehan to do it?”

❅✧❅✧❆

Jehan, the hotel’s very best hairdresser, and one of Grantaire's good friends, corners them as they’re crossing through the lobby, en route to the Ballroom. Gavroche has been going on and on about everything he wants for Christmas, and Grantaire has been trying his very best to listen. He is admittedly grateful for the distraction when Jehan falls into step beside them. 

“Jean Prouvaire,” Grantaire greets, “To what do I owe the honor?”

“R,” Jehan chirps, “Just the man I was looking for.”

“Looking for me?” Grantaire asks, and then he remembers what Musichetta said that morning in the kitchen. Does his hair really look that bad? “Oh, for god's sake is everybody in on this or something?” Gav looks up at him, a quizzical little expression on his face. “Can you believe it, Gav, they’ve all been talking about me behind my back!”

“Oh,” Jehan says. He toys with the ends of his strawberry hair, quite nervously. “So you already know.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve been told,” Grantaire says, “I don't have a clue why you all are making such a big deal of it.”

“Oh!” Jehan nods for a bit, like he is processing. Grantaire squints at him. “You’re alright then?” 

“Yes I’m _all right._ Do you all think I’m made of crepe paper?”

“I don’t R, I think you’re made of steel!” Gav says. 

“Why thank you Gav, and I in turn think that you are made of diamond, and that’s the strongest stuff there is.” Gavroche grins. “Jehan today you and Musichetta both are made of annoying little... gnats, or something.”

“Rude,” Jehan says. 

“Alright Prouvaire, we’ve got to get to work, but I promise I’ll come and see you very soon.”

“Fantastic.” Jehan says, looking quite pleased with himself. Grantaire just shakes his head as he pushes his way into the Ballroom. Then he spots the dramatic way his hair bounces up and down in the mirrors as he walks and thinks that maybe his friends were right all along. 

❅✧✼✧❆

Grantaire is going to kill his friends. He is going to murder them. 

He’s standing there, stock-still in the middle of the Ballroom. He can’t move. He’s just staring with his mouth flung open, a thousand dessert forks scattered on the floor around him, and all he can think about is how he's just going to have to murder each and every one of them. There is no way they didn't know about this. 

It had been an average afternoon. He had been setting up the room for the party, dealing out silverware. Gavroche was setting out the bread plates. They had been humming ‘Carol of the Bells’ in a very dramatic fashion. Gavroche was an impressive tenor. One second everything was fine, and the next, his whole world was up in flames. Grantaire could hardly breathe; reality was rearranging itself around him and he couldn’t keep up. 

He hardly registered the sound of the forks clattering to the floor. It must have been loud but Grantaire can't even remember because he is too busy staring at Enjolras, and Enjolras is even taller than before and somehow all the more striking and Grantaire _can’t breathe_. 

“R,” He says, and it’s one letter but it’s devastating, it's the end of everything. His voice is so different and somehow the most familiar thing Grantiare has heard in so long. Grantaire should say something, he really should. He is going to strangle Joly. And Musichetta. And the rest. 

“I didn't know you still work here.” Enjolras says, and Grantaire tries not to take that like an insult, he really does. He accepted long ago that he would have to work harder, work longer, to do what others do in a few short years. He had already been pursuing his acting degree for six years, working to stay afloat and squeezing classes in whenever he could fit them. He only had one more semester to go. Meanwhile, Enjolras already has a political science degree, and is probably about to finish law school. It maybe should have occurred to Grantaire that Enjolras might return after school finished, but that wouldn't be until May, normally. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras had graduated early. 

“Ah… yep, uh,” He is very eloquent. “Well, you know me.” And what does that even mean? Enjolras doesn't seem to know either, because he just stares rather blankly. 

“What, uh... what are you doing back?”

“We’re looking at the rooms to decide on a venue.” He clears his throat and Grantaire can’t help but watch it move. 

“We?” Grantaire asks, lamely. 

Yes, my…” Enjolras trails off, and it's weird because Enjolras never trails off. Grantaire is sure he’s never once heard Enjolras trail off. “My fiance and I.” And suddenly it's like Grantaire has nothing inside him at all anymore, like it all fell out of his torn open chest and onto the ground with the dessert forks. 

“Right. Fiance. Of course.” Of course. It looks like Enjolras wants to say something more, but someone calls his name from the Terrace room and the moment is gone. 

“I should go.”

“Sure. Right.”

“It was…” He says, and then changes his mind. “Well, see you around.” Grantaire can barely manage a wave, and then Enjolras is gone. 

Gavroche, who had been sitting and watching the whole time as though engrossed in a heated tennis match, and who Grantaire forgot was even there, stands and walks closer. “So,” he says, like he knows. Of course the six year old knows. Everyone knows. “Who was that?”

❅✧❅✧❆

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Grantaire flies into the safety of the kitchen and leans up against the wall. “Oh. My god.” Joly appears, rounding the corner with an empty tray. He stops his cheerful humming when he sees the state of Grantaire. 

“You.” Grantaire says, like it’s a threat. Joly holds his tray in front of him like a shield. 

“Shit,” Joly says, “Jehan was supposed to tell you.”

“Yeah well he didn’t! And I just stood there! I just stood there...” Grantaire ran his hands through his apparently overgrown hair, maybe he should have listened to them. At least he would have had a nice new haircut when he had run into the love of his life for the first time in years. 

“Jehan _said_ he talked to you.”

“How long have you known?” Grantaire demands.

“A week.”

“A week!?”

“And a half.” Jehan admits. He ducks his head, hiding himself even more behind his tray-shield. Grantaire is fuming. 

“I am literally going to murder you all.”

“He did say you took it unnervingly well… said you already heard. I thought it seemed weird.”

Then Grantaire realizes. He groans. “That’s because I thought he was talking about my goddamn haircut!”

“Ohhh.” Joly says. “Jehan does have a tendency of putting things lightly.”

“A little too lightly this time, if you ask me,” Grantaire grumbles, “I want to die.” 

“Hey, none of that, none of that.” Joly says. “Listen, what are you supposed to be doing right now?”

“Setting the Ballroom for a party.” Grantaire says with a wince. He had booked it out of there as soon as Enjolras was out of sight, he left the forks and everything, mumbling to Gavroche that he would be right back. 

“Why don’t you take a second in here, go finish up, and take the rest of the day.” Joly said. “We’re over staffed anyway. Then tonight you, me, and Boss will get hammered at the fourth floor bar.”

“You guys owe me.”

“All the drinks you can stomach,” Joly says, “On us.”

  
  


❅✧❅✧❆

When Grantaire gets back to the Ballroom, he finds that the forks are all cleaned up and Gavroche is sitting at the piano, banging away. 

“Hey, kid.”

“R! There you are!”

“Did you clean up the dessert forks?” He asks and Gavroche nods. Grantaire slides in next to Gavroche on the piano bench. 

“Thank you Gavroche.” He ruffles the boy’s hair. 

“It was nothing, I thought it might get me on your good side so you’ll tell me about Enjolras.”

“Ah,” Grantaire shakes his head, plucks a chord on the piano. “There’s nothing to tell, alright?”

“I don’t believe you, but I suppose I can just ask him…” He says with a glint in his eye. The kid is too sneaky for his own good, Grantaire thinks. 

“Too bad he would say the same thing, then.” Grantaire says. Gav huffs and plops his elbows onto the keys. “I can pay you back some way else though,” Grantaire says. 

“A song?” Gav perks up quite immediately. 

“I don’t see why not.” Grantaire says, and starts in on quite a jazzy version of “Walking in a Winter Wonderland,” which Gav sings heartily along with. Grantaire's heart isn’t all the way in it, and he’s sure Gav can tell, but he doesn’t say anything. 

After the song, he and Gav get right to work, and are done in record time. Probably because Grantaire just isn’t in the mood to chat. The two split up in the lobby, Gavroche with strict orders to go right back to his suite. 

Gavroche salutes Grantaire (even though he has no intention of going back to his room) and watches as his friend heads toward the kitchens, looking rather sad indeed. It is that moment that Gavroche decides he must do something about this. Grantaire does not deserve to be sad. 

❅✧❅✧❆

Gavroche steps out of the elevator on floor 15. If his calculations are correct, Feuilly the housekeeper should be just around there by now. Sometimes, Feuilly lets Gavroche ride on his cart, and he also tells the most interesting stories, so Gavroche likes talking with him on any occasion, but this is special circumstances. 

“Feuilly, Feuilly, Feuilly!” He calls, careening down the hall to where Feuilly stands, looking over his clipboard. 

“Gav, hush up, you’re going to disturb the other guests.”

“Sorry, Feuilly, I just have a very important question concerning a very important person!”

“Very well,” Feuilly says, “Hop on.”

Gav lets himself enjoy the ride for only a few minutes before getting down to business. They are stopped in front of one of the rooms and Feuilly is popping in and out, replacing the towels and soaps. “So Feuilly,” Gavroche says, when they are on the move again, “How much do you know about Enjolras? The boss’ son?”

“Enjolras? I know him pretty well actually. We all do. Or, did.” Feuilly says, checking something off on his list. He grew up here, and he was still living here when most of our little group started work at the Plaza. We were friends.” Feuilly shrugged, looking a little nostalgic. “He loved this place and everyone in it.”

“So how come I’ve never even heard of him?”

“He’s been away at school these last few years, abroad. Hasn’t kept in touch. It think it kind of broke his heart, leaving this place.”

“Did anyone else’s heart break? When he left, I mean...” Gavroche pushes. 

“You’ve been talking to R, huh?” He says. He pauses, like he’s not sure how much he should say. “Yeah they were… complicated, that’s for sure.”

“But were they in love?”

Feuilly barks a laugh, “If you find out let the rest of us know, would you?”

“So what happened?” Gav asks, attentive as a schoolkid on the first day of the new year. Feuilly sighs, pulling a few conflicted faces. “If you don’t tell me, I am just going to keep bothering everyone else until one of you gives in.” Gavroche declares, which makes Feuilly’s choice much easier indeed. 

“Well, from what I heard, R is the main reason Enjolras’s dad sent him away for grad school. As far as I knew, Enjolras had always planned to stay, to go to law school in the city, but his dad wanted something better for his son than to end up with a waiter.”

“So they were together?”

“Not exactly, but it was… a distinct possibility.”

"Distinct possibility..." Gavroche repeated, hoping the words would make more sense once he said them himself. 

“It’s a shame if you ask me, no one should stand in the way of a love like that.”

“So, they _were_ in love!”

“That-” Feuilly says weakly, “That isn’t confirmed!” But Gavroche is already racing back down the hallway. 

“Thank you Feuilly, you won’t regret telling me!”

“Yeah, sure I won’t,” he mutters, “Sure I won’t.”

❅✧❅✧❆

Grantaire is drinking by 8PM. He tries to hold out, he really does, but by 8 he’s already gone over the day’s events in his head ten times, and he needs to think about something else, anything else. He sips a beer in front of Joly's TV for a while before taking the elevator down to the fourth floor bar to meet Joly and Bossuet. The fourth floor bar is the best one in the Plaza because they play real music, the bartender is extra nice to the staff, and all the stuffy rich guests avoid it because it only serves bottled beer and mixed drinks. 

“There he is,” Bossuet calls as Grantaire walks into the bar, “The man of the hour.”

“The man of every hour.” Grantaire corrects. He sits down opposite the duo and drums a bit on the table. “And where is the lovely Musichetta tonight?”

“She’s facetiming Eponine at the moment, might be down later.” Joly explains.

“I forgot, Thursdays are Eponine days.” Grantaire says. Eponine is Gavroche’s sister, and she always does a skype call with Gav on Thursdays, and sometimes has a chat with Musichetta then too. Grantaire and Eponine don't feel the need to video chat since they text each other every detail of their lives in minute to minute updates. Except today, that is. Grantaire didn't feel like bringing it up. Grantaire misses Eponine immensely at times like these.

“Wish she was here.”

“She’ll be back Christmas Eve,” Joly reminds, “We’ll all party on New Year's!”

“Can’t wait.” Bossuet says. 

Feuilly joins them after a while, and catches them up on the Plaza gossip he learned on his rounds today. A few drinks in, Grantaire is already feeling better. He’s got his friends, he’s got his job, and he’s got a drink. That’s all he needs. Christmas tunes are lilting through the bar and Grantaire lets himself relax, and laugh at Joly and Bossuet’s silly arguments. 

“No, Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.”

“Um, Die Hard is _the_ Christmas movie.”

“Just because it takes place at Christmas doesn’t mean-”

“Uh, guys,” Bossuet interrupts, “Incoming.”

“Oh shit, we should have guessed.”

Grantaire knows what they’re talking about before he even turns to look, but he twists around anyway. There, at the entrance to the bar are Enjolras, his cousin Combeferre, and two other men whom Grantaire has never seen. One of them, he knows, must be Enjolras’ fiance. His stomach hurts. Combeferre spots them and grins. He used to stay at the Plaza for summers and he became a good friend of theirs in that time. He hasn’t been back since Enjolras left either, and Grantaire finds that he has missed the man’s bespectacled smile. The group makes their way over to their table, and Grantaire absolutely wants to die. 

“Room for a few more?” Combeferre asks. 

“Ferre!” Joly greets, and the nickname brings a twinkle to Grantaire’s eye, despite the panic. Combeferre shakes each of their hands in greeting, then turns around to introduce their friends. 

“Everyone, this is my fiance, Courfeyrac. Courf, this is Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, and Grantaire."

“Call me R.” Grantaire says. It’s a reflex. 

“And this is Montparnasse,” Enjolras says, placing a hand on the back of the tall, silky haired man in the pressed suit. 

“His fiance.” Montparnasse finishes. 

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees, but his smile looks tight and unnatural and Grantaire doesn’t recognize it. He hopes the expression isn’t his fault, but suspects that it probably is. 

They all slide over and Enjolras ends up right beside Grantaire, because of course he does. Joly shoots him a pitying look. On Enjolras’s other side is Montparnasse, and from here Grantaire can see all of his annoyingly sharp features in high definition. 

“Hello again, R,” Enjolras says. Grantaire just nods in greeting. “And Joly, Feuilly, and Bossuet, It is so good to see you all again.” He grins a politician’s grin, Grantaire doesn’t recognize this smile, either. There is none of Enjolras’ usual severity there. This smile is _practiced_. He wonders if Enjolras picked it up at law school. 

“Right back atcha, Enj.” Joly says. “I can’t believe _you’re_ engaged!” He enthuses, with a small nod in Montparnasse’s direction. “Who would have thought, way back then?”

“That was a long time ago.” Enjolras points out. There’s a beat of silence. Grantaire wants to point out that four years isn’t actually that long when you think about it, but he knows he shouldn’t. Then, Combeferre’s boyfriend turns to Grantaire. 

“Are you the actor?” He asks. 

“Aspiring.” Grantaire answers, ducking his head, and waving away the attention. 

“And a singer too,” Combeferre adds. Stupid Combeferre. Even when they were young, he had always been on him about giving himself “credit.”

“Hardly.” 

Everyone makes noises of protest, and Joly and Boss vouch for his singing talent.

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” Grantiare says to Courfeyrac, but Enjolras interrupts him halfway through. 

“Don’t believe him, he’s always been modest,” Enjolras says. Grantaire looks up at him, but Enjolras’ eyes are glued to the tablecloth, like he’s searching for a secret message in the embroidery. 

“Another singer,” Montparnasse says, “How lovely, I was in the University Chamber Singers. You know, at Oxford.” _At Oxford_ . Grantaire just barely holds back a snort. He manages to turn it into a cough, but Enjolras _definitely_ notices, if the gritting of his teeth is anything to go by. 

“I was in the Glee Club in high school,” Courfeyrac says, modeling jazz hands. Grantaire decides that he likes Courfeyrac. Much better than Montparnasse, anyway. “I know!” Courfeyrac says, snapping his fingers as though he’s been hit with the most brilliant idea in the world, “We all have to go out to Karaoke while we’re here! How fun will that be?!”

Most of the table starts buzzing at the idea. Grantaire, Enjolras, and Montparnasse do not contribute to this. “Come _on_ Enj,” Courfeyrac says, “You told me you used to love going out to karaoke when you lived here!”

“Yeah that was because…” Enjolras says, and trails off. _Again_ . Grantaire wants to shake him, snap him back into it. Where is his conviction? Where is his _fire_? 

“I don’t know, sure, why not?” He finishes, finally. 

“Hey,” Combeferre says, lightly. The Christmas lights strung up around the bar twinkle in his glasses. “Remember when you two used to do that one song at Karaoke? Every _single_ time? It was that show tune, what was it?”

“Evita!” Joly says. 

“No, no,” says Feuilly, “It was that one from…”

“Gypsy.” Say Grantaire and Enjolras, in unison. 

“That’s the one! You guys had a dance and everything!” Combeferre says. 

“The other customers would get all scandalized at the sight of two men dancing!” Bossuet recalls in mirth.

“Now _that_ I’ve got to see,” Courfeyrac says. Grantaire lets himself chuckle at the memory. Enjolras just smiles a small and shakes his head, like he can’t believe he used to do that. And Grantaire is having a whole different problem now because as they sit there and chat he realizes more and more that Enjolras isn’t Enjolras anymore. This isn’t the man he used to know. His brightness has been dimmed, his conviction stripped away, and Grantaire feels, somewhat nonsensically, as though he is looking at a ghost. It all feels very Dickensian. 

Grantaire’s phone buzzes on the table. He flips it over and is relieved to see Valjean’s contact pop up on the screen. Gavroche has texted him from the man’s phone and given him a perfect excuse. 

**Valjean** said: Ponine and I need to speak with you urgently!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Another buzz. 

**Valjean** said: Right now!!!!!

“And that’s my cue,” Grantaire says, and his friends frown at him. 

“It’s Gav, says it’s important.” 

“You and that boy,” Joly says with a shake of his head. “Inseparable.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” He’s scooting out of the booth now. Enjolras and his fiance have gotten up to let him out and he can practically taste freedom. “Well, nice seeing everyone. Happy holidays and all that.”

“We’ll let you know about Karaoke!” Courfeyrac says.

“Sure, yeah,”

Then, Grantaire is gone.

❅✧❅✧❆

When everyone is settled back into the booth, things are quiet. Everyone knows things feel awkward, but only some of them know why. Joly wonders if Grantaire had really gotten texts from Gavroche, or if he was faking it.

“It’s sweet that Gav and Grantaire are so close,” Combeferre says.

“That boy looks at Grantaire like he hung the stars.” Feuilly adds.

Enjolras clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten. Who’s Gav?”

“Eponine’s little brother,” Combeferre reminds. Joly notices Enjolras’ shoulders visibly relax. It's interesting. He files it away for later.

“Oh yeah, he was only a baby when you guys left!” Joly says, “We’ll have to introduce you. He’s a great kid. He just about worships Grantaire. He’s been acting like an older brother since Ep has been away.”

“How sweet,” Montparnasse says, taking a sip of his gin. Enjolras says nothing, but nods along with his fiance.

“Anyway,” Bossuet says, “Who needs another round?”

❅✧❅✧❆

“Oh my god,” Eponine says through the screen. 

“I know,”

“ _Oh_ my god!”

“I _know_ ,” 

“Can you guys say something more interesting please?” Gavroche whines from deep within the clutches of a plushy armchair. 

“Gav,” Eponine says, and Grantaire turns the laptop so Gav can fully see her intimidating expression. “Why don’t you go help Valjean with dinner.”

“Nah, I’m good here.”

“ _Gav._ ”

“Fine,” Gavroche huffs, “But I’m not happy about it.”

“Noted.” Eponine says. Grantaire waits for Gavroche to wander into the kitchen, then collapses onto the couch, letting the webcam focus on the wall. He lets out a melodramatic sigh, and Eponine laughs, which Grantaire does not appreciate. 

“I can’t believe it,” Ponine says, “Have you seen him? Have you talked to him?”

“Yes, and yes... well, sort of.”

“And?”

“ _And_ nothing,” He says, then amends, “ _And_ I made a massive fool of myself. _And_ Enjolras still looks like the lovechild of a greek god and a model. Just older. With… arms. And, like, hair… on the arms."

“What did you do?”

“Dropped a thousand dessert forks onto the floor of the Ballroom in shock.”

“Nooo,” 

“Yes,” 

“It’s just like… he looks _really_ good,” Grantaire says weakly. 

“Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”

“If he’s…” Grantaire looks into the camera again. “Ponine. Did Gav not tell you that part?” Grantaire asks. Eponine shakes her head. “He left out the very best part? The icing on the cake of Grantaire’s day of despair?”

“So he’s dating someone.”

“No,” Grantaire corrects, “He’s engaged. He’s to be married on Christmas Eve.”

“ _What?_ ” Eponine spits out, like this is the most absurd thing she has ever heard. “Enjolras? Our Enjolras? Getting _married_?! On a holiday built on the backs of Catholicism and Capitalism? That’s not… that can’t be right!”

“Oh, but it is.”

“That’s so… not him.”

“Tell me about it.” Grantaire says. He messes with his hair in the camera. Maybe he really should get a cut. Eponine is still shaking her head, as though she can’t quite wrap her head around the news. “He’s changed."

“Clearly,” Eponine pauses then. It’s obvious she wants to say something. It’s even obvious what she wants to say. Grantaire puts her out of her misery. 

“He isn’t here,” He says, “At least, not yet.”

“Well if there’s going to be a wedding he will be.”

“Yes, probably.” 

“Are they staying through New Years?”

“Yep,”

“Fantastic. At least you won’t have to be miserable alone once I get there.”

“He’s not alone!” Gav shouts, pouncing on Grantaire from out of nowhere. 

“How long have you been there, you little demon?” Grantaire asks, ruffling Gav’s hair. 

“Not a demon!” Gav argues. Grantaire playfully shoves him into the couch and starts tickling his sides. 

“Oh, no? Just a rascal then?”

“No!” Gav kicks up at Grantaire to deflect his tickling. 

“You’re _both_ rascals,” Eponine says from the laptop. 

“Maybe so,” Grantaire says. 

After they hang up with Eponine, Valjean joins them in front of the TV, and they marathon _The Santa Clause_ trilogy. 

Grantaire makes it halfway into the second movie before he lets himself thinks about Enjolras. It's that one scene that does it, the one where Santa brings childhood toys to the office party. After that he can’t stop remembering his second Christmas working at the Plaza, when Enjolras was fifteen and Grantaire was sixteen. They had gotten into a giant fight on December the 10th and hadn’t spoken for weeks, until, on Christmas Eve night, Enjolras had come down to the staff floor and knocked on Grantaire’s door with a peace offering: his Christmas gift. 

Grantaire had laughed when he unwrapped it. It was a Lite Brite, a toy he had always wanted from his parents but had never gotten. They spent the evening making glowing pictures out of the pegs and drinking mulled wine that Enjolras had stolen from his parents. 

Grantaire’s heart hurts at the memory. He knows he shouldn’t dwell on it, but he can’t stop. He never would. It’s the only thing Grantaire knows for sure. Having Enjolras on his mind is a default setting. He drifts off trying to remember the sound of Enjolras’ laugh and is fast asleep by the time the third movie begins.


	2. Gavroche plots and Grantaire panics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Grantaire just knows he's going to need therapy for this."

Grantaire only half remembers waking up on Gavroche’s couch to meander home at 2AM. Last year, he had finally been able to afford to move out of his staff housing at the hotel and rent a refrigerator box-sized apartment, just a subway ride and ten-block-walk away. This way, his wages aren't dipped into for the housing fee and he gets to spend his hard earned cash wherever he wanted. Granted, the bulk of it is still going toward rent. 

It is absolutely tiny and hidden in a sketchy alleyway, but it is Grantaire’s very own and he is proud of it. He had hung multicolored Christmas lights in his window the weekend before, and draped them over the iron railings on the fire escape. Somehow, it had ended up quite cozy. 

He blinks into their glow when he wakes up the next morning, and looks out the window to see that a light dusting of snow had coated the city. Grantaire always loves when it snows in New York. It softens all of the city’s harsh edges, and brightens it’s dark corners. For a few seconds, at least, until it all becomes sludge and slush. It isn't until he takes his first sip of coffee that Grantaire remembers everything that had happened the day before. It tastes bitter after that, no matter how much sweet and low he adds, and he can't even finish one mug. 

As the clock ticks ever-closer to 7AM, the start of his shift, Grantaire checks his phone. It seems Combeferre’s fiance has put them all into a group chat to discuss Karaoke. Grantaire can't help but smile at the millions of exclamation points shining up at him from his screen. It seems to Grantaire that Combeferre has met his perfect compliment. Combeferre has always been a careful placement of periods and semicolons. 

_Courfeyrac_ named the group PLAZA BOIS!!!!!!

_Courfeyrac_ said: this group is specifically for (but NOT limited to) discussion of our aforementioned karaoke night!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Grantaire knows he has to find a way to get out of karaoke, but he decides to figure it out later. For now, he just stuffs his phone in his jacket pocket and starts getting dressed for work. There is a breakfast in the Terrace Room that morning. Grantaire likes breakfasts because usually all of the guests are too tired to be a pain in his ass. 

Most breakfasts, though, didn’t include Enjolras, Enjolras’ smarmy fiance, and Enjolras’ father, who is also Grantaire’s boss, technically, and who has never liked Grantaire, no matter how hard he has tried to charm him over the years. 

Grantaire wants nothing less than to wait on that specific group of people. He promises Floreal half of his tips to switch sections. Grantaire is almost always stationed at the front section to wait on the hosts and the guests of honor (because he is a good employee, god damn it) but today he tries his very best to blend right into the wallpaper. 

Grantaire would swear he isn't in the room more than ten seconds before Enjolras’ eyes meet his from across the floor. Thankfully, though, Grantaire doesn't think the other two notice his skulking around the edges of the room all morning. As Grantaire pours his tables mugs of coffee, he sees Floreal bring a cordless mic over to the head table. Enjolras’ father takes it and stands, addressing the entire room. 

“Good morning everyone,” he says, with a kindly smile that Grantaire knows to be at least a little bit fake. “First of all, I want to welcome each and every one of you, and to thank everyone for coming. Enjolras and Montparnasse are very happy you have all come to celebrate their union over the next three and a half weeks.”

If Grantaire wasn't trying so hard not to be noticed, he would scoff at the thought of wedding festivities dragging on for weeks. Talk about overkill. 

“As you all know, Enjolras is my pride and joy. He is very lucky to have so many _honorable_ and _respectable_ people around him. From what I have seen of Mr. Montparnasse, I can tell that these two are a smart pairing.”

Grantaire's stomach twists deeper at every word spoken. He wants to bolt from the room entirely, but he is still holding table 4's coffee pot. Enjolras, across the room, smiles that horrible fake smile, glancing back and forth between his father and his fiance. 

“...They are equals in intelligence and in ambition,” Mr. E continued, “And I am certain there could be no better match for my son.”

Grantaire would later decide it was a hallucination, a side effect of breathing in straight coffee steam for five minutes, but he swears, just after his father says those last few words, Enjolras looks up, mouth falling flat at the edges, eyes shockingly open and clear, at Grantaire. The room stops, the world quiets, the flurries out the window freeze where they hang in the air. But when Grantaire blinks, it's like nothing happened at all, and everyone is raising a glass to the perfect, happy, _ambitious_ couple. 

Grantaire just knows he's going to need therapy for this. 

❅✧✼✧❆

If Gavroche had known he was going to have _this_ much to do during the Christmas season, he would have started plotting months ago. 

It's still the beginning of the month and already he has too much on his plate. He has to get all of his shopping done, help Jean-Jean decorate their suite, become one of Enjolras’ very best friends right away, immediately, and try to cheer Grantaire up. If it is going to take stopping the wedding, Gavroche supposes, he would have to do it, without hesitation. Sure, a Christmas Eve wedding was awfully romantic, but if it made Grantaire sad (and if it got in the way of _true_ love,) then Gavroche would not support the event in the slightest. 

Needless to say, Gavroche is positively overwhelmed by the time he leaves his room the next morning. He is so distracted, in fact, that he knocks straight into the knees of their across-the-hall neighbor, Sir Javert. 

“Well hello, Gavroche.” He says, in his stern, french voice. Gavroche always has to remind himself not to imitate Javert’s accent. Jean-Jean says that mimicking people with accents is positively rude. 

“Hello, Sir Javert.”

“Where are you off to so early this morning?” He asks. 

“Oh, I have so much to do, I can hardly get into it now,” Gavroche says, with all the agitation of a stressed out grad student. This, presumably, because the people everyone he hung around with was a stressed out grad student. 

“I see, I see. Well, if you could spare just a moment, there was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Very well,” Gavroche allows, “As long as it’s quick.”

“Oh sure, sure,” He says, with no semblance of quickness. “You see, I am doing my Christmas shopping later this afternoon and I am quite undecided about what to get your… your…”

“Jean-Jean,”

“Why, yes,” He mumbles, “Your Jean-Jean. I was thinking perhaps something like this,” He pulls a folded catalogue page from his jacket pocket and unfolds it. He has circled one specific watch with a red marker. Gavroche takes one look at it and shakes his head. 

“Jean-Jean already has _so_ many watches, Sir Javert. I’m sure if he had another it would just sit in a drawer with the rest of them.” Gavroche jams the elevator button with his finger about seventeen times in a row, and finally they slide open. He leaves Javert muttering to himself in the hallway. “I’m sure you’ll find something proper for Jean-Jean though, Sir Javert!” He calls, as the elevator doors ding and begin to shut, “But for now I must take my leave at once!”

Gavroche wastes no time after emerging on the ground floor. He struts right up to the front desk, where Bahorel is hard at work. He seems to be concentrating rather intently on a tall stack of papers and jumps about five feet in the air when Gavroche reaches up and slams his palm down on the bell. 

“Agh! Gav, how many times?”

“At least one more! Now, I have important business to attend to. No time to chat! Do you have any letters, or maybe _packages,_ come for me?”

“Not yet buddy,” Bahorel says, setting his pen down and then rubbing his temples, “But Christmas is still weeks away, I’m sure mountains of gifts will be arriving for you any day.” 

“I sure hope so,” Gavroche says, “ He turns to leave, but realizes that he hasn’t yet quizzed Bahorel on the top-secret Enjolras and Grantaire situation. He turns back and rests his chin on the desk, training his eyes on Bahorel, who has gone back to his work. 

“What are all those papers?” He asks. 

“I’m checking over all the rooms booked for the big Christmas wedding.” Bahorel explains. 

“Interesting,” Gavorche says, “The wedding. Enjolras’ wedding.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know Enjolras?” Gavroche asks then, as innocently as possible.

“I thought you didn’t have time to chat.”

“I always have time for my dear friend Bahorel!”

“Uh huh,” Bahorel says, wholly unconvinced, “I suspect you are just being nosy.” 

“I just want every possible detail about the wedding, of course! Don’t you think it’s positively romantic? Christmas Eve! Snow! Beautiful decorations!”

“I don’t know how you and Eponine are possibly related.”

“So...?”

“Yes,” Bahorel says, “We all knew Enjolras. Or, know him, I suppose. He was a part of the group. More than that, really. He was kind of the leader. Don't tell him I said that last bit, though."

“Who was his _best_ friend?” Gavroche asked, “Was it you? Or, no, I bet it was Feuilly. Or maybe… someone else?” Gavroche makes his best puppy dog eyes, blinking dreamily up at Bahorel. He is not above such tactics, especially since he is not even nine years old yet. 

“Gavroche you aren’t as sneaky as you think. I know what you are trying to get out of me.” Bahorel says. Gavroche just waits, eyes wide, expectant. “Combeferre, the best man, was and is his best friend. They’re cousins. He came to stay every summer and he hung out with all of us.”

“Bahorel!”

“Gavroche.”

“Why did Grantaire look so sad when he saw Enjolras? And if they were best friends, why are they both acting so weird around each other? _And_ why did Enjolras leave in the first place? _And_ _why_ won’t anyone tell me anything?”

“I can’t answer those questions, Gav."

“I am absolutely going to die if someone doesn’t tell me, Bahorel!”

“Pardon,” A voice says, from behind Gavroche, “Sorry to interrupt, but did he call you Bahorel?” Gavroche whips around to see a grinning man with caramel skin, bright white teeth, and dimples.

“Yes sir, he did.”

“I’m Courfeyrac! I’m Combeferre’s fiance! I’ve already heard so much about you and I _have_ to add you to our karaoke group chat.” Courfeyrac shakes Bahorel’s hand and then places a phone in it, open to a new contact page. 

“No way, Karaoke?! Such a throwback. I’m so there.”

“Yes!”

“Fiance?” Gavroche says, peering up at Courfeyrac, “That means you’re getting married too?”

“At this point, kid, who knows?” Courfeyrac says with a laugh, “Let me guess, you’re Gavroche.”

“That’s right!” Gavroche responds, proudly, “Have you heard about me, too?”

“Oh, tons. I heard you are Grantaire’s favorite, and Grantaire seems awesome, so that means you must be awesome too.” Gavroche grins. 

“Courfeyrac,” He asks, “Will you introduce me to Enjolras?”

“Gav,” Bahorel warns. 

“It’s just that I keep hearing about him, and his beautiful wedding, and how he was friends with all my favorite people, but I haven’t even met him. I would just love to hear about the wedding plans. R says he won’t introduce me, though.” Gavroche says, then pouts, for effect. 

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, and checks his watch, “Enjolras is coming to meet me for a haircut in about ten minutes. Care to join us?” 

“I could use a trim!” Gavroche grins up at Courfeyrac, and then sticks his tongue out at Bahorel. Bahorel just shakes his head. 

“Just keep an eye on him,” He warns Courfeyrac, “This kid always has something up his sleeve.”

  
  


❅✧✼✧❆

Enjolras could not be happier that the brunch is over. His father had insisted that they throw it as a welcome for all of the earliest arrivals at the hotel. _Then_ , his father insisted that they all go for coffee and cards in the lounge. Enjolras still doesn’t understand why everyone had to get to the city so early. Hundreds of guests arriving over the next few weeks. For his wedding. His big, white fucking wedding. 

He shakes his head to clear it. His hair tickles the back of his neck with the motion. Right. Haircut with Courfeyrac. He is looking forward to seeing Jehan. Enjolras had found it difficult to trust other hairdressers while he was abroad. His father would surely have been appalled at the sight of Enjolras walking to class, hair to his shoulders. He had made Combeferre give him a quick cut before he came home, just so he wouldn’t hear about the length from his father. Jehan would surely tsk at the sorry state of it. 

Enjolras separates from Montparnasse in the lobby and heads to the salon. When he arrives, he sees that Courfeyrac has not yet been there, and that Jehan seems to have wandered off into the back room. The only person in the room has a wet mop of dark curls. The bell above the door rings when Enjolras enters, and Grantaire looks up at the noise. There are ringlets clinging to his face, and a cape draped over his body. Enjolras suspects Jehan might have given Grantaire a shave as well as a trim. Enjolras wants to poke fun at the way his legs barely stick out from under the cape. Old habits. 

“Enjolras,” He says.

“Oh,” Enjolras replies, lamely, “Grantaire, hello.”

“Getting a cut?”

“Yes, you too?”

“All of our friends have been _gently insinuating_ that I get one, so yes.”

“I always liked your hair long.” Enjolras says, without even thinking about it. His mouth goes dry. Why had he said that? _Why on earth_ had he said that? Grantaire’s mouth falls slightly open and eyes go wide and he’s staring too intently at Enjolras, so Enjolras drops his own eyes to the tile. “I—um, is Prouviare here, or..?”

“He just ran into the back to get another… blade, or something.”

“Right.”

“Enjolras-”

“Grantaire!” A shock of yellow and red flies across the room and launches itself into Grantaire’s lap. 

“Gav!” Grantaire responds ruffling his hair. “What are you doing here. You hate getting your haircut.”

“I came with Courfeyrac,” Gavroche explains, and now that Enjolras has snapped out of whatever _that_ moment was, he registers Courf leaning up against the doorframe. 

“Hey boys,” Courfyrac says, “Aw, Grantaire, have you cut your hair? I quite liked it long and messy. Made you look like a true artist. I like yours long too, Enjolras. Are you sure you don’t just want to get a trim and grow it out again?” 

Gavroche snaps his head up and seems to notice Enjolras for the first time. “You are Enjolras!” He says, and hops off Grantaire’s lap, and leaps up onto one of the other chairs, in order to be up on Enjolras’ level, presumably. “It’s so nice to meet you! I can’t believe I know all of your friends but I don’t know you! Are you absolutely thrilled about the wedding! It’s so romantic that it will be on Christmas Eve! Do you hope it will snow?”

Enjolras can’t help but laugh at the stream of questions pouring out of the child’s mouth. He is obviously more inquisitive than is good for him, and Enjolras can see all of Eponine’s self-assuredness in the way he spoke. He vaguely remembers meeting a small baby, in passing. He had been extremely busy at the time, applying for Oxford, and fighting with his father, and fighting with Grantaire, to pay much attention, but he remembers Eponine’s eyes lighting up when she spoke of her little brother. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Gavroche.” Enjolras says. “Personally, I do hope it will snow. I like the snow quite a lot. Although, my fiance detests the stuff, so maybe it would be better if it didn’t.”

“Hates the snow!? What kind of a person hates snow? Snow is joy and excitement all wrapped in one!” Gavroche says, obviously appalled. 

“It rarely snows where he’s from, so he isn’t used to it.”

“Does he have an accent?” Gavroche asks, “Is it funny?”

“Gav,” Grantaire says, and it’s clearly a warning. Gavroche just shrugs and leaps from the chair. He drops the subject, though. Enjolras is impressed to find that Gavroche seems to listen to Grantaire. As though Grantaire is some kind of authority. The two don’t quite mesh in Enjolras’ head: Grantaire and authority. Finally, Jehan sweeps into the room. 

“Well look at all of you! I’m so sorry. I went into the back room for some supplies and got distracted by the most beautiful winter bird at the window! He was so tragically lonely…” He trails off for a moment, before shaking his head, “Anyways! R, I just need to do some finishing touches on you and then you are free to go. Then I will get started on whatever you call _this,_ E.” He lifts a few strands of Enjolras’ hair to examine it. “Seriously, did you take a hacksaw to it? Do they not have barbers in Europe?”

“They don’t have _you_ in Europe.”

“Clearly.”

“It’s very nice to see you too, Prouvaire.” Enjolras says, and Jehan smiles, drops Enjolras’ hair, and gathers him into a warm hug. 

“It’s about time you came back. Is this your fiance?” Jehan gestures toward Courfeyrac. 

“No,” Courfeyrac says, but steps forward anyway, “I’m Combeferre’s, actually. My name is Courfeyrac.”

“Wonderful to meet you, Courfeyrac. To think, both Enjolras and Combeferre... _in loving relationships_ . I can hardly believe it. Honestly, you two were the most awkward teenagers I ever met. Absolute romantic _disasters_!” Enjolras shakes his head as Gavroche laughs delightedly. “It’s true! Remember when Combeferre decided he might try to ask the girl from the fourth floor out for ice cream and got too nervous so he pretended to be housekeeping? He kept the charade up for a week!” Enjolras finds that he does remember this, but hadn’t thought about it in years. Courfeyrac doubles over with laughter at the story. “Then obviously I could never forget stone-cold Enjolras and his millions of crumpled up letters. We thought he was writing speeches all that time and secretly he was—"

“Jehan,” Enjolras interrupts. He can't let Jehan finish that story. Grantaire blinks slowly at Enjolras, still sitting in his chair, asking a question without asking it. Enjolras stares steadfastly at the floor to avoid looking at anyone. There is a weight in the room suddenly.

“Uh, my finishing touches?” Grantaire reminds.

“Secret letters?” Gavroche asks, sounding positively thrilled. 

“Oh! Of course, R. I am so sorry, my brain is just all over the place today!”

“Trust me, I get it,” Grantaire says. 

"Is no one going to tell me about the letters?" Gavroche whines. No one says a word, although it looks like Courfeyrac wants to agree with Gavroche on the subject. 

"Gav," Grantaire says, ignoring the question, "if I remember correctly, you got your haircut like three weeks ago. You shouldn't need another for at least another month. You know how Ep feels about you throwing money around."

Gav hangs his head a bit at this accusation. "I know,"

"Gavroche sweetie, you don't have to fake the need for a haircut every time you want to come down and see me." Jehan jokes. 

"Not you Jehan, I see you all the time."

"Well then," Jehan says then, in mock offense. 

"Instead of wasting time here, why don't you go take care of one of the many things on your to-do list, which you were whining to me about all morning? Or make a plan for tomorrow night, or have you forgotten?"

Gavroche gasps, as though he _had_ forgotten indeed. 

"Very right R, how could I forget?" Gavroche asks, rising from his chair in quite a composed manner. "I must be off, gentlemen, but I do hope to speak to you all soon." His composure breaks the second he gets through the door and he bolts toward the elevators at top speed.

Grantaire watches him go with a fond smile, which only fades when he notices Enjolras watching him.

Courfeyrac clears his throat. "So is no one going to tell me about the secret letters?"

❅✧✼✧❆

"I've told you three times, Gavroche, I won't be here for spaghetti night this month." Jean-Jean says. Gavroche has bounded back up to the suite when Grantiare reminded him about spaghetti night. Once a month, Grantaire makes his mom's spaghetti and meatballs for Gavroche and Valjean, and Eponine, if she happens to be home. Then they all watch a movie-musical and sing along at the top of their lungs. Sometimes Gavroche prepares costumes. Every time, there are good snacks.

"What! Why on Earth _not_ , Jean-Jean?"

"An old friend is in town and I'll be having dinner with them." 

Gavroche groans like this is the worst thing that could possibly happen to him. "If you're gone, who is going to play Sandy? You _know_ I don't take any romance roles because that's just not my style."

"Well I'm sorry but you're going to have to do without me."

"Grantaire does not work as well without a love interest…" Gavroche mutters.

Then Gavroche gets a brilliant idea. If it works, it might just solve two of his problems in one fell swoop. 

“Where are you off to now?” Jean-Jean asks, sounding entirely worn out.

“I have something urgent to attend to Jean-Jean, be back in no time at all!” Gavroche says, slamming the door and leaving Jean-Jean standing alone and confused in the living room. 

❅✧✼✧❆

When Grantaire knocks on Gavroche’s door the next day, red wine in hand (neither Grantiare nor Valjean can get through the sing-along portion of the night without it,) it is only out of habit. Gavroche has told him a million times that he should just walk in (unless they have a bit planned, of course) but Grantaire can’t shake the feeling that he should knock. 

Today, he is glad for the habit. 

At least Enjolras has the decency to look just as shocked as Grantaire when he pulls open the door. Grantaire really needs to have a serious talk with Gavroche about meddling.

“What,” Is all Grantaire can manage to say. 

“Uh, Gavroche invited m-”

“No need to explain. This has Gav written all over it. Look you don’t need to stay. I don’t know what he’s told you, but-”

“It’s fine,”

“Seriously you d—”

“It’s fine. I hear there is going to be spaghetti.” Enjolras’ lips are now pressed into a small smile. Grantaire rolls his eyes, but he smiles back, a little. Maybe, just maybe, this won't be the worst thing in the world. He and Enjolras had been friends once, after all. Enjolras finally steps aside to let him in, and Grantaire beelines it for the kitchen, dumping his grocery bag and the bottle of wine on the counter. 

“Hello, R,” Gav says, popping out of nowhere and looking to all the world like a perfect angel of a child. 

“Don’t you make that face at me like you’re some normal boy and not a demonic child of Satan.” 

“Seems a little intense,” Enjolras puts in, like Grantaire had asked, or something. 

“It’s not,” Grantaire says, “I’m going to open this now, I think,” He digs through one of the drawers in search of a corkscrew. “Where’s the old man, Gav?”

“He can’t make it. That’s why I invited Enjolras. So that he could be Sandy.”

This is just getting worse and worse. Grantaire focuses solely on twisting the corkscrew instead of the fact that Enjolras is leaning up on the counter about six inches away from him. He has to try desperately just to steel his face, just to look like none of this was bothering him. 

“Did Enjolras _know_ that this was the plan?”

“Uh, yes,” Gavroche says then, like a liar. Grantaire looks at Enjolras to see if he'll contradict this statement, but he keeps quiet. He has no idea what Gav could possibly have said to get Enjolras to come, unless Enjolras had been operating under the assumption that Grantaire would not be there. 

“So no Valjean, then.”

“He did leave that though,” Gavroche points to a second bottle of Red sat next to the refrigerator. “I think he thought it was his turn.”

“You know what that’s probably for the better. Enjolras? Wine?” Grantaire asks, trying not to cringe at the high, manic tone in his voice. 

“Sure,”

Grantaire takes two glasses from the hanging rack and pours a generous amount into each. He slides one over to Enjolras without looking at him, takes a sip of his own, and begins unpacking the grocery bag. It's just cooking, just spagetti. It's a recipe he's known since practically before he could walk, but somehow now, with Enjolras looking on, it seems an impossible feat. 

“Gav, are you going to help this time or just sit around eating the shredded cheese? Because if it’s the second one I’m going to banish you to the living room.” Grantaire says, banking on the fact that Gavroche is always keen to stir something. He had been hoping to graduate to chopping for a year now, but Granaire still didn't trust him with knives. 

“I actually just remembered! I have to go across the hall to Mr. Javert’s to pick up some of his cookie dough! Jean-Jean told me to ask if you would help bake them, R? I am also supposed to snoop around his suite to see what he might need for Christmas, but Jean-Jean told me not to tell anyone that part.” 

This isn't what is supposed to happen. Gavroche is supposed to say yes and be such a handful that Grantaire is unable to pay Enjolras any attention at all. He is not supposed to leave. 

“Fine, take Enjolras with you, so you aren’t alone.” Grantaire demands. There is no way in hell that kid is going to get away with leaving him along with Enjolras.

“No need, it’s only across the hall. Be back in a jiff!” 

Before Grantaire can even turn around from pre-setting the oven, the door slams, Gavroche behind it. 

“I’m going to find an early grave because of that child.” Grantaire says, mostly to himself. 

Enjolras, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet for an uncharacteristically long time, finally pipes up. “I think he seems great.” Grantaire just huffs and goes back to cooking. The only sounds in the kitchen are made by Grantiare’s cooking process. Grantaire wishes he could say it isn't an awkward silence, but it is, in fact, terribly awkward. He wants to claw his own stomach out of his torso. After a few minutes, Enjolras clears his throat. 

“I can help you,”

“What?” Grantaire says, although he both heard and understood. He does not turn around, just keeps stirring the spaghetti. 

“I can help. You, uh, asked Gavroche for help.” 

“Oh, no it’s not… I just let him help to make him feel useful.”

“Oh,”

“Enjolras,” He says, trying very hard to sound aloof, conversational. “You _really_ don’t have to stay. The kid will be fine. You won’t hurt his feelings or-”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts, and Grantiare’s breath runs shallow because, from the sound of it, Enjolras has stood up and walked much closer to Grantaire. Finally, Grantaire turns around. How could he not?

“ _W_ _hat,_ ” 

“You don’t have to keep…” Enjolras trails off, searching for words. “Giving me outs. I’m staying.”

Something about those words strikes all of Grantaire’s walls down, and it isn’t until he finally lets himself meet Enjolras’ eye that he realizes why. When it dawns on him, his stomach twists like the gnarled roots of an old tree, because Enjolras has said those same words to him before, so long ago. Grantaire doesn’t think that Enjolras realizes what he’s said, or what it has made Grantaire remember, because he just furrows his eyebrows a bit at the dumbstruck expression on Grantaire’s face. 

Grantaire remembers a screaming match. He remembers feeling pathetic. Feeling wrong. He remembers telling Enjolras to leave him. Demanding that he leave him. “I understand if you want to,” He said, “I understand,” He remembers Enjolras saying his name, touching his face.

_Stop trying to give me an out!_

_I’m staying._

The spaghetti pot starts to overflow. 

" _Shit,_ " Grantaire shoves his hand into an oven mitt and yanks the pot off the burner. He heaves a sigh, leans over the countertop and stares at the speckled marble. "Look," He huffs, frustrated, without even turning away from the stove. He just needs Enjolras out of his space, needs him gone. "I wasn't giving you the out for _your_ benefit." 

Grantaire wishes he could take it back the second it leaves his mouth, because it sounds meaner than he meant it, but it's too late. He whips around and watches Enjolras' face rearrange itself as it clicks. 

"Oh," Enjolras says, "Of course. Silly me." He picks his coat up and shoves one arm into it, then the other. 

"Enjolras that's not-" 

"No need, Grantaire," Enjolras says, already on the way out the door. "Heard you loud and clear." The door slams. Enjolras' half-drunk wine glass, now abandoned on the counter, wobbles from the force of it. Some idiotic, brain-dead, embarrassing part of Grantaire gets the urge to drink the rest of it himself, to put his mouth on the glass, put his fingers on the stem, in just the same position Enjolras' were. He scoops up the glass as though clearing a table in the ballroom and tosses the rest of the wine down the sink. Grantaire understands nothing. Had Enjolras thought they would just be able to pick up being friends… or, whatever they had been before? Had Grantaire's unhappiness at Enjolras' return really come as such a shock?

The door flies open again and Gavroche stomps into the apartment. Grantaire has traded a tall angry blonde for a short angry blonde. 

" _What_ did you do?" Gavroche demands. 

"I didn't do anything," Grantaire snaps harshly, before remembering that it's Enjolras he is angry with, not Gavroche. Mostly, anyway. He does need to tell Gavroche that he has to stop with all of this nonsense. That he can't keep meddling. That Gavroche's puppeteering is making Grantaire's situation even worse. He almost opens his mouth to say it, too, but something stops him. If he were alone he would laugh at himself, a derisive, barking kind of laugh. He deserves to be laughed at because a terrible, pathetic part of him doesn't want Gavroche to stop at all. Not in the slightest. A part of him wants to make it as difficult as possible for Enjolras to say 'I do' on Christmas Eve. A part of him wants Enjolras to suffer like he is suffering. A part of Grantaire wants Enjolras to look him in the eyes and change his mind. He wants Enjolras, plain and simple. 

Of course, he knew it would come down to this again. As if four years is enough to erase the way Grantaire feels about Enjolras. As if any amount of time could. 

Grantaire sends Gavroche in to set up the movie and finishes dinner. He sings to an invisible Sandy and teaches Gav the _Grease Lightning_ choreography and pretends he doesn't feel like he was run over by a garbage truck. 


	3. Grantaire & The Very Interesting Elevator Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that's the moment, as he scoops trays from the carpet up on the ninth floor, that Grantaire realizes that he has been manic-pixie-dreamgirling the fuck out of Enjolras for pretty much the entire time he's known him.

❅✧✼✧❆

"I can’t stand him," Enjolras says, pacing back and forth at the foot of Courfeyrac and Combeferre's bed. “He hasn’t changed a bit, that’s for sure.”

It's morning, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre would have liked nothing better to wake up peacefully, to the muted sounds of a snow covered New York City. Instead, they were awoken by Enjolras pounding on their door in a rage. They knew it was Enjolras by the sound of him muttering under his breath. For a fancy hotel, the Plaza's walls were surprisingly thin. They would have turned him away, except Courfeyrac reminded Combeferre that he was Enjolras’ best man, and should be looking out for him before the wedding, which Combeferre begrudgingly relented to. 

“You’re right about that,” Combeferre says, “He really hasn’t changed at all.”

“I did nothing to him, you know,” Enjolras goes on. “He just kicked me out because he didn’t want me there. I didn’t know my mere presence was so revolting. I just wanted to get to know Gavroche, you know, because I used to be close with Eponine, and I never really got to meet him.” This was not expressly true. Enjolras had not ever felt the need to get to know Gavroche on a personal level. Not that he didn’t like the boy, he just didn’t love kids all that much, in general. He doesn’t know why he said yes to coming for dinner at the boy’s place. It certainly wasn’t because he thought Grantaire might be there. In fact, if Enjolras had suspected Grantaire would be attending, he wouldn’t have agreed to attend at all.

So, there. 

He tells his friends as much, but Courfeyrac lifts his eyebrows skeptically. 

"Well, that's not true, is it, Enj? Grantaire talked about it when we ran into him at the salon."

"Yes, well... I must have missed that." Enjolras sniffs. Stupid Courfeyrac. 

“I don’t know, Enjolras,” Combeferre argues, “It seems like this is a tradition for Grantaire and Gavroche. Perhaps it had nothing to do with you, and Grantaire just wanted to spend time with Gavroche alone, for… bonding, or something.” 

“Oh no, this had everything to do with me. I’m sure of it.” Enjolras says, but even as the words leave his mouth, he falters. Perhaps it really didn’t have anything to do with him at all. Possibly, Enjolras had just been intruding on a special night that Grantaire had planned for himself and Gavroche, who seemed to practically be like his little brother at this point. Enjolras feels his face fall into a pout. Something about being back home is bringing the teenager out in him again. When he looks at his friends, they are both sitting up in bed, fixing him with skeptical looks. 

“Okay, fine, _maybe_ it wasn’t all that… personal.”

“Thank you,”

“It was still rude.” 

“I’m sure it was.” 

“You are losing patience for me.” 

“How did you guess?”

“I’ll see you at lunch.” Enjolras sweeps back out the door, and Combeferre immediately pulls Courfeyrac back down under the covers, practically lays on top of him, and closes his eyes with a blissful exhale. 

❅✧✼✧❆

Gavroche must admit, this plan might be more difficult than he originally thought. 

It would help if someone would just tell him the whole story. It’s just too confusing. Some people say Enjolras and Grantaire were best friends. Some people say they were totally in love. Others say they definitely were not. Meanwhile, Grantaire and Enjolras themselves either act like total strangers or get into screaming matches in Gavroche's kitchen. And everyone else seems to want Gavroche to just stop talking about it altogether. 

And Grantaire is still sad. Which is unacceptable. 

Gavroche sighs gravely and collapses face first to the couch. It's hard to be such an integral person in so many people’s lives. He isn’t sure how he does it all. He is a very impressive eight year old, if he does say so himself. 

“The cookies came out great, Gavroche.” Jean-Jean says, entering the room with a small plate of them and a large glass of oat milk. “Did you happen to notice anything missing in Sir Javert’s suite? Maybe a wall that could use a nice piece of art? Or a collection of some sort, that I could add to?” 

“Jean-Jean, I’m sorry, but I’m just far too busy for this right now. I had to be in and out of Sir Javert’s because I knew I couldn’t leave R alone very long with…” Gavroche trails off. He’s said too much. 

“Couldn’t leave R alone with who, Gavroche?” Jean-Jean asks, brows lowering in suspicion. 

“With the dinner, of course,” Gavroche reckons it’s a good thing he is so clever, and quick on his feet. “I was helping with the sauce.”

“You remember all the talks we’ve had about meddling, right Gavroche?”

“Of course, Jean-Jean. Meddling is no good and shameful.”

“Good boy."

“I know.”

“Except I am still entirely unsure what to get Sir Javert for Christmas. I’m running out of time. Do you think he would like a very nice cologne?”

Gavroche just wrinkles his nose at the idea, mostly because he hates the smell of most colognes, and because he thinks Jean-Jean can come up with a better idea. “Don’t worry, Jean-Jean, the perfect gift idea _will_ come to you. You just have to wait for inspiration to strike.”

A few moments pass and then Gavroche jolts upright. “Inspiration,” He repeats. Gavroche stands up and bolts to his room, without a word to Jean-Jean, who doesn’t much concern himself, and takes another bite into his cookie. 

Gavroche’s room is in quite a state. He just doesn't have time to tidy his room these days. Not when he is so busy making sure everything around here is going right. He tears through a few toys and pillows on the floor in order to clear a spot near his bed, then goes digging underneath for his art box. Finally, he finds it with the tips of his fingers and drags it out. And there it is, sat right on the top of the box: one if R's old sketchbooks. He had given it Gavroche because it provided his much scope for the imagination when he was going through his intrepid writer's phase. Gavroche had used it as _inspiration_. The pages were filled with dragons and monsters and heroic adventures of all sorts.

And then there was the man. Always the same one, over and over, drawn as a knight, or a prince, or the hero who came to save the day. Gavroche had asked about him endlessly, but R would never tell Gavroche who he was. 

Gavroche flips through the sketchbook as fast as he can without tearing any of the pages, which are worn now and stuck together in spots from being pressed down for so long. Then he sees him. 

It's just as Gavroche suspected. The mysterious man in R's old drawings is now undoubtedly recognizable. It's Enjolras, it's undeniable. Gavroche grins and keeps flipping through. Every other page confirms it. To Gavroche, this can only mean one thing: Grantaire _was_ in love with Enjolras. He had to have been. No one draws their very good friend as a knight in shining armor, after all!

Gavroche falls back onto the carpet to have a good think. He is going to have to step up his game. With this confirmation it is only more clear what he must do in the name of true love. 

❅✧✼✧❆

If Grantaire didn't absolutely need the money, he would be calling in sick. As it is, though, he's walking to work, praying his shift won't include another wedding-related event. He isn't sure he could bear it. He only narrowly avoided having to wait the "welcome party" for Enjolras' extended family a few days ago, and he suspects that was Musichetta's influence. 

It’s been a week since their fight, and Grantaire has been pulling out all the stops to avoid running into Enjolras. Unfortunately, this has also meant ignoring some of their friends. It's not like he's going to ask them not to see him, or not to talk about him when Grantaire is around, though he's pretty sure his friend's would do it if he asked. It’s not fair, how Enjolras can just waltz in and kick Grantaire out of his own life. 

Thankfully, the schedule lets him know that he is on room service duty until noon, when he'll help clean up a fraternity brunch. Neither of which are Enjolras related activities. If he gets an order from the penthouse, he will simply pawn it off on someone else. Later tonight he has an audition, and he definitely doesn't need the added stress of seeing Enjolras after their angry parting the week before. 

He should know better by now. He should have guessed that the second he stepped onto the elevator that day he would end up face-to-face with Enjolras, who was clearly going back to his room from some wedding function or another. It’s this hotel; Grantaire is sure the building itself is some sort of sentient, mischievous spirit, who meddles in other people’s affairs even more than Gavroche. 

Grantaire heaves a great sigh and steps further into the elevator, resigned to the fact that, well, this is happening. Because why wouldn’t it be? He presses the button for sixteen, and prays that they pick up someone on levels 2-5, so that they aren’t stuck alone together the whole ride up. Enjolras, for his part, just stands in the corner, looking shiftily over at Grantaire every few seconds. The next time Grantaire catches him doing it, he rolls his eyes. 

“Would you stop that, please?”

The elevator seems to be moving impossibly slow. How are they only on floor 3? The lift rumbles to a stop on floor four, and Grantaire has some hope that someone will enter and break the tension, but the family waves them off, as they are going down to the lobby. He presses the door close button repeatedly and without mercy. 

“That’s not going to help.” Enjolras supplies. 

“Well your side-eying isn’t helping anything either.”

“I am not side-eying.” The doors finally slide closed again. 

“You clearly are. You’re, like, glaring.”

“I am not!” He says, appalled at the notion. Grantaire just rolls his eyes and watches the little light click on and off above each floor. Enjolras takes a deep breath as they crawl past floor 11. “Look,” he says then, shockingly calm. “I shouldn’t have gotten so angry at you that night. I took it too personally. I was crashing your tradition with Gavroche. I realize that and I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”

Half of Grantaire wants to correct him. What happened that night had quite obviously been extremely personal, but this has never happened before. For as much as Grantaire and Enjolras fought when they were younger, they never really apologized, never “made up,” in the usual way. Things would just fade, or they would get sick of being so angry and start the whole cycle anew. Apologies were never a part of whatever they had been.

Grantaire clears his throat, even though there’s nothing there to clear. He tap-taps nervously on the handle of his delivery cart. This is uncharted territory. 

“I mean, I shouldn’t have phrased it like that." Grantaire relents, suddenly scrambling to shrug the argument off like a misunderstanding. He doesn't want to talk about what the argument was really about, so he guesses this is his best option. "I was just sure you had better things to do than babysit Gavroche and stand awkwardly in the kitchen with me. I mean, we were watching Grease, and you hate that one.”

“I like the songs.” Enjolras protests. 

“But you hate the message.”

“Of course I do.” They are fast approaching floor 16. 

“Anyway, I just thought you probably didn’t want to waste the evening when you could be getting ready for the... big day,” Grantaire cringes as he says it. He sounded like the wedding planners, phrasing it like that. He just couldn’t bring himself to say the word “wedding.” “I’m sure you had much better options for company than singing _Summer Nights_ with the two of us.”

“Not really,” Enjolras says, rather quietly. That gives Grantaire pause. 

“Uh, your family, your lifelong friends, the… lucky guy? Do any of them ring any bells?” Why wasn’t there a cooler phrase for “groom” that didn’t involve Grantaire actually saying the word “groom” out loud? Enjolras just shrugs. It is quiet for a moment, but Grantaire can feel it in the air, that Enjolras is gearing up to say something. 

“He was using the room for work. On a big call, or whatever, so I couldn’t be there anyway.” Enjolras shrugs as he says it, but he must know by now that he can't fool Grantaire. It was the way Enjolras had said it as though admitting to something, the way it sounded like a confession. 

“He kicked you out?” Grantaire asks. 

“No. He was just… using the room for work.” The elevator slows, then stops, but Grantaire is not ready to end this conversation. 

“The penthouse has like six separate rooms.” 

“It was fine.” The doors slide open. Grantaire rolls his cart between them, so they won’t shut. He fixes Enjolras with a skeptical stare, waiting for more explanation. “What? It was fine, really! I sat in the lobby.”

“The lobby? Twenty different rooms in this hotel are currently rented out to your friends and family. Why didn’t you just go to one of theirs?”

“I didn’t want to.” Enjolras says simply. “Everyone’s annoying me.” Grantaire’s brain latches onto the information that Enjolras was more willing to spend time with him than anyone else in the Plaza, including Montparnasse. It doesn't matter that the situation is more nuanced than that. His simple mind catches it and holds it and won’t let go. “All they want to talk about is… the big day.”

Grantaire genuinely can’t decide if Enjolras is mocking him, or if he also can’t muster the words. Grantaire feels worse than ever about the wedding. No longer just jealous and hopelessly in love, Grantaire is full-on concerned and baffled as to why Enjolras is choosing to do this. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to fight again, but he can’t support it, he won’t reassure Enjolras. He settles for the truth. 

“I don’t understand you, Enjolras.”

❅✧✼✧❆

Grantaire’s words haunt Enjolras all day. They follow him back up to the room, play on repeat in the back of his mind as he checks his work inbox, even though he is supposed to be on leave. Hours go by in which he can’t stop thinking about them and by the time he realizes that he's been ruminating on the same thing all day, he is in a dour mood. 

He isn’t sure why they are bothering him so much. _“I don’t understand you, Enjolras.”_ They make him angry, make him so needlessly sad, but he can’t place quite why. He mopes all day, pretends to get things done. 

That night, when they are sitting on the massive bed in the penthouse, flipping through channels, Montparnasse stops on one. 

“You want to watch this?” He asks. 

Enjolras looks up at the screen and shrugs. “If you want to.”

“Well, you like this kind of thing, right?”

“Not this one.”

“What do you mean? You sing that one song all the time. The annoying one, with all the nonsense words.” 

“I like the songs, but the ending is awful.”

It clicks then. The reason Grantaire’s words seemed to haunt him all day, hanging over him like a storm cloud. Despite everything, despite distance, and arguments, and tension, and everyone else around them, Enjolras considered Grantaire the person who understood him most, knew him best. It was just a fact of life. The sky is blue, capitalism is the enemy, Grantaire _gets_ him. 

“Do you want to watch it, or not?” Montparnasse asks. 

“No, I don’t. Just turn it off. I’m tired.” 

❅✧✼✧❆

The chat in the elevator leaves Grantaire completely lost. All day he feels out-of-it, feels off, confused, fogged. It’s a slow-dawning realization, a truth that marinates all day and suddenly takes Grantaire completely by surprise. It boils down to this: Enjolras is imperfect. 

For years, forever, Grantaire has been unable to find any real flaws in Enjolras; he had actually been convinced that the man possessed none at all. If there were flaws, there were none that Grantaire didn’t like. None that didn’t add to the whole golden, glowing package that was Enjolras. Stubbornness. An inability to admit he way wrong. A truly impressive amount of unathleticism. Naive Idealism. They were there, and objectively, they were negative, but Grantaire had loved every bit of them in Enjolras. 

This is different. This is a shift. This is avoidant behavior, bad decision making, fake smiles. Real character flaws. Real problems. And that's the moment, as he scoops trays from the carpet up on the ninth floor, that Grantaire realizes that he has been manic-pixie-dreamgirling the fuck out of Enjolras for pretty much the entire time he's known him. He has been so convinced that Enjolras couldn’t fail, that he couldn’t waver, couldn’t be anything but gold, perfect, strong, _perfect_ , beautiful. 

But Enjolras was no God. Enjolras is no God. Enjolras is a man. 

Something shifts just then, a leveling. Grantaire can’t help but picture Enjolras descending slowly from the sky, losing his luster, his wings: a fallen angel. That’s something Grantaire can relate to: a fall, a loss. Maybe he has been holding on to the veneer of it all on purpose, because it’s terrifying how the realization makes his feelings toward Enjolras all the more real, all the more intense. Almost… possible? It scares him. 

Finally, finally he can _see_ Enjolras. It’s like blinking the sleep from his eyes. And it doesn’t change anything, not really, but it does rearrange the world just slightly, it does tint the lens through which Grantaire everything that has happened in the last 4 years, like suddenly certain things are coming into focus.

Grantaire works the rest of his shift in a mildly catatonic state. He walks home on auto-pilot. His perspective on certain things has changed today, but _he_ hasn’t, so spends the whole night with a bottle of wine, staring out the window and wondering what Enjolras is doing, thinking, looking at, wearing, reading. He wonders what he wonders about late at night. He wonders who he loves, who he really loves. He drunkenly, hopelessly wonders if it could possibly be Grantaire. He takes comfort in the fact that his own desperate feelings for the man are just as strong and hopeless as ever. Just a little less sad, maybe, a little less pathetic. 

It isn’t until the next morning that he realizes he missed his audition. He swears out loud, and sends an apology to the casting director, but he honestly wasn’t too jazzed by the project anyway, and revelations take precedence over employment anyway, in Grantaire’s book. 

It’s his day off, and it’s strange, because the morning prior he had been feeling the exact opposite, but today he wishes he were going into the hotel, wishes he were going to have the chance to see Enjolras. How quickly things change. 

He checks his email. The casting director hasn’t responded. There is no way Grantaire is getting another shot. He texts his agent, figuring he should just get it over with. Ever the professional, his agent sends back a string of exasperated emojis and reminds him to schedule his audition for a pilot that films at the beginning of the New Year. Grantaire knows he should be more focused. If he could just book something, maybe everyone would stop looking at him like _that._

" _I didn't know you still work here."_ Enjolras' words bounce around in his head.

That afternoon, it rains, cold but not quite frozen. It’s miserable. It washes away the snow and leaves the city wet and dreary. At around 3PM he drags himself out of his apartment to box for a while at the gym around the corner. He stays for longer than he planned. By the time Grantaire finds himself back outside, night has fallen, and he is both sweaty and hungry. 

The lights of the city are smeared in the sky, smudged across the ground, like an oil painting. Grantaire makes his way through it like a shadow, a figure on the canvas you can’t quite make out. Someone, who, if you looked close enough, was just an amalgamation of vague, amorphous blobs and brushstrokes. 

Grantaire feels painted to life. Right, but not all the way. Real, but not really. 

The only thing that snaps him out of his hazy, rain-drenched fog is a series of buzzes from his phone. He’s at a table by the window in the cafe, picking at a croissant and downing a peppermint mocha. 

_Courfeyrac_ changed _Combeferre’_ s nickname to _KARAOKE GOD_

 _Courfeyrac_ changed _Courfeyrac_ ’s nickname to _KARAOKE GODDESS_

 _KARAOKE GODDESS_ changed _Enjolras_ ’s nickname to _KARAOKE PEASANT_

 _KARAOKE GODDESS_ says: TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT KARAOKE BITCHES!!!!

KARAOKE GOD: We have a few tables reserved at Holiday. Everyone is welcome to bring dates or friends. See you all there.

 _KARAOKE PEASANT_ changed _KARAOKE PEASANT_ ’s nickname to _Democratically Elected Karaoke Representative_

 _Jehan_ said: Excited to see everyone!!

 _Bahorel_ said: F YES. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. 

_Joly_ said: It is 9PM yet?

Grantaire frowns and scrolls back up in the messages. He hadn’t even known they had set a date for Karaoke. He had completely missed this development. Somehow, karaoke had snuck up on him and Grantaire had never come up with an excuse to get out of it. A few more messages popped in, from his friends confirming the time or shooting out song ideas. Grantaire opened up his second group chat with Joly, Boss, Chetta, and Eponine. 

_R_ said: I can’t do this. I’m not going.

 _Undercover Boss_ said: NOOOO R :(

 _Jolly Old St. Dickolas_ said: Everyone wants you there, R :( :( :(((((

 _R_ said: I can think of at least 2 people who definitely don’t

 _Music Cheddar_ said: That’s not true babe

Grantaire sends an eye roll emoji. Technically, he knows he’s probably going to go. It’s just that he isn’t going to go without being a little bitch about it first. Finally, Eponine chimes in, and reads him for filth. 

_Ep-09_ said: We all know you are going to go Grantaire. Stop whining about it. 

Grantaire opens up his private message with Eponine. It’s funny how that happens, how he jumps from chat to chat depending on what he wants to say. Different combinations of the same people. A smaller and smaller group, depending on just how honest he’s feeling.

_R_ said: Rude. 

_Ep-09_ said: Well it’s true. 

_R_ said: How do you know? U aren’t even here.

 _Ep-09_ said: I know because it’s you, dummy & you and me are the same & I know what I would do in your situation.

 _Ep-09_ said: You’re pouting, aren’t you?

 _R_ said: We are both masochists. 

_Ep-09_ said: Yes.

 _R_ said: I hate us. 

It’s nearing 6:45, and Grantaire is still sweaty and in his gym clothes. And he’s going to Karaoke in two hours with all of his friends, the love of his life, and the love of his life’s fiance. At least the panic broke Grantaire out of his hazy introspection for as long as it took to rush back to his apartment, take a lukewarm shower (because he doesn’t have the time to wait fifteen minutes for the water to run hot,) and throw on some clothes. On a whim, Grantaire smudges on some eyeliner. He usually only wears it clubbing, but karaoke calls for some drama, some stage makeup, if you will. 

Grantaire has just enough time to sit by the window, take a few pregame shots, and decompress. Musichetta is designated driving for them, like she usually does. Musichetta is a champ. She always says she doesn’t mind because she “can have fun without the aid of the devil’s chemicals, unlike the rest of you losers.” Musichetta grew up deeply catholic, and even now, as an atheist in a polyamorous relationship, still references the devil more than the average person. They all know she doesn’t drink because she doesn’t like feeling out of control, but they let her act like a badass anyway. 

The murky feelings start to resurface while he waits. The rain has stopped, but the streets are still slick and shining under the streetlights. By the time Musichetta blares the horn, he’s been staring at the wall for five minutes, thinking, lost to the world. He jumps up at the sound of the horn, looks himself over once in the mirror, pours one last hasty shot and downs it on the way out the door. 

❅✧✼✧❆

Bars have never been Enjolras’ scene, but Holiday is the exception. The first time he had ever been was when he was 17. They had all left the Plaza after dark. It was winter, so it got dark at 5:30, but somehow it had felt like the middle of the night as he and his friends walked through the city, looking for something, anything to do. 

Courfeyrac was the one who saw the sign propped outside of the unassuming black door. “Karaoke Night!” Combeferre, who was in town with his family for Christmas, was, to everyone’s surprise, the one to talk the bouncer into letting them in. Combeferre was able to logic himself into anything he wanted, and since the bar was dead, the bouncer had relented, but not before warning all the bartenders that none of them were to be served anything but sodas or juice. 

It didn’t matter. They were still young enough to lose their inhibitions with the help of a little bit of sugar, instead of alcohol. Enjolras still thinks that the sugar rushes, the highs they got from those brand new feelings of freedom, were better, anyway. If only they had never grown up. 

Now, he sits in a booth, sipping something severe and carbonated out of a skinny straw, watching Combeferre and Courfeyrac flip through the song book, heads ducked in toward each other. Enjolras doesn’t know if he’ll sing. Back in the day, he would pretend to be just as indecisive. 

“No, I’m not singing tonight.”

“You say that every time, Enj.”

“Well I mean it this time.” 

And he really did mean it, in the beginning, but then Grantaire would queue up a cheesy duet from some old musical or another and hold the other microphone out to him like it was a given and Enjolras couldn’t say no. Then it became a game. Enjolras’ nonchalance, Grantaire’s insistence. He would refuse, with a wave of his hand, just to see Grantaire get on a knee, hold the microphone out like an offering to a king. On one occasion, after they had finally turned 21 and been able to order beer and vodka sodas all night, Grantaire swept Enjolras up into his arms and carried him to the stage, and they hadn’t even been able to get through the song that time, for how much they were laughing. 

That was the last time they went before everything changed. Then, Enjolras left for grad school in Europe. Even on holidays, Enjolras had never really been able to make it back to the Plaza for those four years. His father was always planning trips to tropical islands instead of homecomings. So, Enjolras lost touch with a lot of his friends at that time. Enjolras also hadn’t sung in public since. 

So, no, he wasn’t going to sing this time. 

Montparnasse could sing fine. He had a chorus kind of voice, which sounded better in the background than up front. Enjolras would never tell him this, of course. It didn’t matter, anyway, as Montparnasse was sneering down at the songbook, clearly unhappy with his options. 

“Are you going to sing?” Enjolras asks, nudging him under the table with his foot. 

“I doubt it.” Montparnasse says, in a distracted kind of way. “There’s nothing classical in here.”

“It’s karaoke,” Enjolras says, annoyance creeping up again. Montparnasse had been eliciting this reaction from Enjolras more and more since they’d been in New York. It was like Montparnasse had made sense when they were across the sea, studying and attending charity events. In the context of New York, of the Plaza, of Enjolras’ childhood home, Montparnasse didn’t fit. 

It doesn’t matter much: it’s not like they are going to be living in New York. Enjolras feels an unexpected pang of sorrow at that particular thought, but washes it down with his Gin. He doesn’t know what has gotten into him. He loves the Plaza, and always will, but it was never his plan to stay in this city forever. Or was it? 

He can’t remember now, what his dreams had been five or six years ago. It’s strange. It doesn’t seem all that long ago. Undergrad in the city, living on campus but hanging out at the hotel on weekends. Summers spent in the cafe making lofty plans with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, visiting Jehan’s dorm for a free haircut in exchange for permission to use the before and after photos for his midterm, following Grantaire around during his shift, waiting for him to get off so they could try to second-act Broadway shows. Enjolras had always offered to just buy them tickets, but Granaire would refuse.

“Buy them? Legally?”

“Yes,”

“Well what’s the fun in that?”

“I don’t know, not being utterly confused during all of act 2?”

He remembers those years well in the context of everyone else, but can hardly remember who he thought he'd be by 25. Career-wise, he had known what he wanted to do since he was ten, so that was plain and clear, but he wasn’t sure he had ever thought about location, where his _home_ might be. The Plaza was the only place he had ever loved. 

Enjolras is dragged from his thoughts by the arrival of the rest of their friends. Jehan gets to the the booth first, beaming sweetly at all of them. They all shift around to make room (they had been spread out in the largest booth in the place) and their friends slide in one by one. By the time everyone is in, Enjolras has been pushed to the edge of the booth, Montparnasse smushed up against his side. Grantaire caps off the group, and ends up directly across from Enjolras. 

Enjolras says nothing of the fact that Gratnaire is wearing eyeliner, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice. In fact, it is probably the first thing he notices. It’s just a very noticeable thing, is all. 

Doug, their favorite bartender abandons his spot behind the bar when he spots them. He comes over to take their drink orders, giving them grief about their absence as he does. 

“It hasn’t been that long,” Combeferre says. 

“I haven’t seen any of you in 3 years.”

“Okay, so it’s been a while.”

“And to think we used to let you use the booths as a playground when you were like twelve.”

“We weren’t twelve!” Joly says.

“Close enough,” Doug responds. 

Grantaire runs a finger along the bottom of his eye, as though he is worried that his eyeliner has smudged. Then he rubs his fingers together, to get it off his fingers. “It was your lawsuit,” he says with a grin, and Doug chuckles. They all go around the table and order drinks. 

He’s almost done his Gin and doesn’t want another. He wants something sweeter. Enjolras thinks about ordering a Manhattan, which was his go to drink at bars in Europe. His classmates all thought it was funny that he was from the city and ordered it. Now, though, he doesn’t see the point and switches at the last minute to his old standby: a vodka cranberry. 

“Extra cranberry?” Doug asks, because he remembers. 

“Sure thing,” Enjolras smiles. Montparnasse wraps a hand around Enjolras’ shoulders, and Enjolras lets himself lean into it until he speaks. 

“Trying to relive the undergrad days, love?”

Enjolras had always hated when Parnasse called him ‘love'. He only says it when he is judging Enjolras, and Enjolras doesn’t like being judged. He shrugs the hand off his shoulder and clears his throat. 

“Going to run to the bathroom,” Enjolras says, and speeds away from their booth. 

He carves a path through all the people in the bar and he tries desperately not to let his mind wander. There has been something there, in the back of his mind, for the last few days and Enjolras knows if he lets it, it will surface, it will erupt, it will send everything crumbling to the ground. He can’t let that happen. He won’t know how to deal with it if it happens. Lately, it seems, Enjolras has been incapable of dealing with anything difficult. So, he keeps to the status quo, maintains stasis. It reminds him of his parents. He hates to think he is anything like his parents. 

Enjolras stares at himself in the mirror the way people do in movies. He stares into his own eyes until his breathing slows. Stasis. He doesn’t know, but he is pretty sure if he wills something to be, it will be. That is just how life works for Enjolras. 

He is in love with Montparnasse. Yes. He is in love. 

When he gets back to the table he has a drink waiting for him. His friends are passing around the sign up sheet for karaoke. He is sure he has never felt such an urge to drink. He used to bother his friends about it, berate Grantaire for his bad habits. Now, maybe for the first time, he feels like he needs a drink. He knows it isn’t good, isn’t a healthy thought to have, but he sets the straw in his mouth and drinks a quarter of his vodka cranberry in one go. 

It doesn’t help. At least he knows he won’t turn to addiction. 

The night feels like a chore. Enjolras entertains Montparnasse as though everything is normal. He grins and cheers for his friends when they sing. He watches Combeferre and Courfeyrac sing some Country Pop duet. The things Courf gets Combeferre to agree to astound Enjolras. At some point someone asks if Enjolras is going to sing and he feels Grantiare’s eyes on him but he refuses to look, he won’t look. 

He wonders if Grantiare will do it, will ask, like all those times before. Enjolras doesn’t know which option he is hoping for more. 

Except he does. Of course he thinks that Grantaire will ask. 

When he doesn’t, Enjolras tries not to feel supremely wounded, like a child who didn’t get picked for a game. It doesn’t work. He can feel himself sulking as everyone crowds back into their booth after a job well done. He is staring gloomily into his empty glass when Courfeyrac kicks his shin under the table. 

“Someone’s getting sleepy.”

“What?” Enjolras asks, without looking up. Why hadn’t Grantaire asked him? Grantaire hadn’t sung at all. Come to think of it, Gratnaire had been acting strangely the whole night. He’d been quiet, uncharacteristically so. Enjolras looks up at Grantaire now, and Grantaire, who meets his eye, holds his stare for just a second before furrowing his brow and looking away. 

“He always gets tired when he’s had one too many.” Montparnasse says. Enjolras can hear the wry smile in his voice. 

“No, I don’t.” 

“You do though, babe.”

“Well, _you_ only call me _babe_ when _you’ve_ had one too many.”

“What’s wrong with babe?”

“It grosses me out.”

“Don’t be petulant.”

“I’m not being petulant!” 

Enjolras realizes belatedly that they are in a public bar and not their flat back in Europe. They are surrounded by his friends. Enjolras knows that he is just as guilty, but he can’t shake the feeling: _Montparnasse is embarrassing him in front of his friends._ Enjolras _is_ being petulant. He takes a deep breath. 

“You’re right. I am tired.” Enolras stands up, bracing both hands on the table, in that way that means a person is going to leave. Montparnasse gets the signal and starts the process of gathering his coat and things. It always takes him so long to leave a place, Enjolras has noticed. He always makes too big a deal out of it. 

Combeferre catches Enjolras’ eye and asks a silent question. Enjolras is a bit too tipsy to discern exactly which one, but he knows it isn’t one he wants to answer so he just shrugs and looks away. Everyone else is quiet, either gaping at Enjolras or pointedly looking at something else. 

Except Grantaire, who is trying to murder Montparnasse with his eyes.

“This was very nice,” Montparnasse says to the table at large. “Nice” sounds more like “cute” or “sweet” and Enjolras just wishes he would stop being so belittling. He acts as though Enjolras’ hometown is some podunk little town and not the largest city in America. 

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees. 

“Definitely!” Courfeyrac says, taking pity. “This place is just as fun as everyone said.”

“You guys won’t stay?”

“No, no,” Enjolras says, and because he can’t help himself, “I get tired when I drink.” 

“I’ll call a cab,” Montparnasse says, and takes his phone around the corner to the entrance. Enjolras nods goodbye and follows him, but shoves past him out into the street. It seems like hours since the rain, days even, but the street is still shining, puddles still pool on the sidewalk. Enjolras steps in one right outside the doorstep and it splashes all over the bottoms of his pants and waterlogs his socks. 

Montparnasse curses when the same thing happens to him as he follows Enjolras out. Serves him right. 

“Enjolras!”

“What?”

“It’s freezing! Come wait inside; the car isn’t here.”

“You don’t have to call a car!” Enjolras shouts. “There are cars everywhere! It’s New York City!”

“Enjolras,” Montparnasse grabs Enjolras by the arm. “Where are you going?”

“I’m walking back.”

“You’re such a frigid bitch sometimes, Enjolras, you really are.”

Enjolras rounds on him, because he can’t believe it. He simply can’t. “Oh because you’re just so warm, Parnasse.” Enjolras shakes his arm from Montparnasse's grip and sets his hands on his hips because if he wants frigid, he’ll get frigid. “The insults you used to use on your old girlfriends won’t work on me _babe_. I am a frigid bitch!"

“No, no. You’re not. I didn’t mean—”

“Of course I am!” Enjolras argues. “I’ve always been, I always will be, I don’t understand how you are just now realizing it. That’s what you signed up for!”

“Enjolras—”

“I’m walking back. I’ll see you there.” He says, and storms out into the city. 

❅✧✼✧❆

Gavroche is normally in bed by now, or at least pretending to be, but the living room window has a perfect view of the park across the street, and Enjolras has been pacing back and forth in the grass for over ten minutes now. It would be concerning if Gavroche didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that all the pacing had something to do with Grantaire. He is enraptured with the performance. 

“What on earth are you still doing up?”

“Shhh, Jean-Jean, I’m watching something!”

“Oh,” Jean-Jean ducks down to Gavroche’s level and squints out the window. It’s starting to frost as the temperature drops. “Who is that? That one of your friends? You really need to get some your own age. I know you are precocious for your age but…”

“For God Sakes Jean-Jean,”

“See this is precisely what I mean. I don’t know where you learned such language—”

“Someone else is coming!”

Despite himself, Jean-Jean leans back down. If they squint, they can make out Courfeyrac and Combeferre as they trudge over to Enjolras. All three in long coats and scarves, they look like a scene from a movie, an old one, with guys who talk in funny voices, the kind of movies that Grantaire made Gavroche watch sometimes. Gavroche’s favorite is _It’s A Wonderful Life_ , of course.

The ground is still wet from the rain earlier, but it has clearly cooled down during the early hours of night, because just as Courfeyrac wraps one arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, it begins to snow. Combeferre takes off his hat, puts it on Enjolras’ head, and flips up the hood of his own coat. The three of them walk together to the curb, look back and forth a few times, and cross the road. Gavroche watches until they disappear under the overhang of the hotel roof. 

Then, he sits back, feeling as though he has just seen the end of a terrific film. Gavroche knows, though, that they are still only in the opening act. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @grantaireble on tumblr for questions/concerns/etc, or just leave a comment! See you next week :)


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